


Thunder

by JazzRaft



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 20:37:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15590235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JazzRaft/pseuds/JazzRaft
Summary: Gladio has learned a great deal about Noctis in the short time he's been groomed as his Shield. He knows all that he needs to help him grow, to keep him safe, to be by his side for as long as he'll have him. Learning that he doesn't like a thunder is an unexpected lesson in his curriculum.





	Thunder

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aithilin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/gifts).



> filled for a prompt [over here](http://jazzraft.tumblr.com/post/176699489152/i-dont-like-thunder-for-gladnoct)

“I don’t like thunder.”

Gladio knew a lot of things about the young prince. He needed to. Ever since he’d come of age as his Shield, the time for learning receded beneath the shadow of time for _knowing._ Of course, he would continue learning – his father told him that they didn’t stop learning until the day they died, and even then, wasn’t there still something new on the underside of life, waiting to teach them its secrets?

Gladio had learned that Prince Noctis was once afraid of the dark. Now, Gladio knew, he snuck out after nightfall with a sharpened sword and – he hoped – Gladio’s own lessons ringing in his ears.

Gladio had learned that sometimes it hurt Noctis when he walked, and then he’d learned why, and now he knew which stretches to instruct him into doing to make the pain just a little more bearable before sparring. He’d learned how to implement the right routines for those days, too; how to make the most out of Noct’s limitations without pushing him to the point of breaking.

Gladio had learned, since he was old enough to speak to the Prince, every little thing he would ever need to know to fulfill his duty and keep him safe. He learned how to fight so he could know how to teach him. He learned how to camp so he could know how to survive enough for the both of them. He learned how to splint an arm or stitch a wound or nurse a bruise so he would know how to keep him alive in a crisis.

All of this Gladio knew from a decade of cultivating the ever-evolving impressions of discomfort or distaste or disappointment on Noct’s face. He learned by experience, countless little accidents with a training sword, an endless surplus of beans scraped from the side of a plate, catching shadows after midnight warping from the Citadel windows to see the city after dark.

He’d learned a lot, but just as his father had warned him, he didn’t know everything. Just when he thought he was prepared for every little triviality Noctis might plague him with, he learned something knew.

“I didn’t know you were afraid of thunder.”

Noctis whipped a glare at him. “I said I don’t _like_ it, not that I’m afraid.”

There was a kernel of fear in every breed of contempt, if you asked Gladio – not that Noctis was, so he kept that little philosophy to himself for now.

“If you don’t like it, why are you standing here ogling at it?”

The royal chambers were high, _high_ atop the Citadel, a more symbolic placement than a practical one – but then Lucis was all about sacrifice for the sake of hierarchy. Another thing Gladio knew – and, thankfully, hadn’t had to learn by example – was that in the event of an emergency, he would have his hands full taking Noctis down a hundred flights to safety. And with a thunderstorm thrashing against the windows, raindrops drumming so hard against the glass that the whole hall shivered, he couldn’t help himself from worrying. What would he do if the glass shattered? What if that thin wall between warmth and safety and a mile-high plummet to demise finally cracked?

“I’m facing it down,” Noctis answered after the next thunderclap, wincing beneath the rattle of the Citadel. “Like you said. I need to face down my enemies like a king; can’t run and hide like a kid anymore.”

Gladio didn’t remember saying it quite to that effect, but yeah, that did sound a tiny bit like him. Noctis stood with his arms crossed in an attempt to make himself look more intimidating than he felt, but Gladio could see the way his hands curled around his elbows with every rumble of thunder, imperceptible and futile efforts in comfort. In his rumpled sleep clothes and his ruinous hair, he was hardly armed for a fight, whether it be internal or otherwise. His eyes were heavy with restlessness, unblinking as he glared at the streaks of lightning rolling through the Wall, but twitching with every bolt, like it was taking the effort of every muscle in his body to stay standing right there and take each blow as they came.

“Well, I never said you had to face it alone,” Gladio sighed, drawing himself up and staking out a spot next to Noctis to wait out the storm.

Noctis flitted a wary glance towards Gladio, shrinking into himself as if he suspected mockery. Gladio still didn’t know how he could ever think he would mock him and mean it. But then Noctis was barely sixteen, and the world that used to welcome him for his fears was starting to shun them. Only children were allowed to be afraid of the dark, afraid of thunder, afraid of silly things that couldn’t really hurt them.

But Noctis had been hurt by worse long before his childhood was supposed to end. He’d learned as much as Gladio did where the danger was, knew that shadows were for hiding knives and storms were for calling daemons.

“Go back to bed, Gladio,” Noctis murmured, looking like he was ready to fall over into his own at any moment, if only the thunder would quiet enough to give him some peace. “You don’t need to babysit me.”

“I won’t babysit you if you don’t babysit me.”

Gladio didn’t mind the thunder, but he hated the height. He never liked coming up this high in the Citadel, rarely ever had to when the Crownsguard barracks were on ground level, in an entirely different building, where he and Noct had the literal world beneath their feet. On the few occasions he visited the top-most tower, the view over the city always made him feel nauseous.

Insomnia was obscured by thick, gray sheets of rain now, the thunderclouds low to those in the Citadel, but high to those in the streets. The concrete towers of the city, tall enough to touch sunlight, disappeared like smudges of smoke in the storm, their shadows imprinted in the clouds with every crack of lightning. Like pirate ships in the sky, Insomnia drifted in and out of the mist, the hull of the Wall rocking along to the war-drum thunder like a boat on the sea.

“Gonna be a long night before the storm breaks,” Noctis warned him, pretending to be adamant about being left alone. But Gladio had learned to see what Noctis didn’t show. He knew which orders were a cry for help. He knew which dismissals were begging him to stay.

He knew that, of all the things he had taught Noctis not to be afraid of, being alone was still what he feared most. Maybe this could be a lesson to him, then.

“Good thing I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

Noct’s shoulders relaxed, the tension in his arms uncoiling, and the hunch to his neck smoothing. He played like the put-upon brat, insisting that he didn’t need a bodyguard to protect him from a little rain, but Gladio knew him. He knew how he fronted friendly animosity for gratitude, too proud to show Gladio just how much he needed him. He knew how badly he needed a friend when the world came crashing down on him, whether it was the Crown banging down on his head, or a little rain.

They traded barbs, then traded stories, like Gladio used to do for Iris when she was cowering beneath her covers when the thunder shook their house. They sat on the floor, backs to the window, and showing the storm how little they cared about its blustering boasts of lightning and thunder.

One day, Gladio hoped he learned not to hate heights. And he hoped Noctis knew, that so long as he was by his side, he would never be alone.


End file.
